Patterns
by Anime1Manga2Lover3
Summary: Sherlock is drawn into a string of murders done by a serial killer known only by the initial "S." While he and John are investigating, a strange new occupant moves in upstairs. Who is S? What's with Morgan? (Eventual) Sherlock x OC
1. Chapter 1

The mobile set on the wooden table buzzed to announce an incoming text. The man next to it, lying on the couch with his hands folded, ignored it. The phone buzzed again.

"John! I need you to do something," the man said, not moving from his position.

Another man stepped into the room, regarding the summoner suspiciously. "If it involves the fingers in the fridge, I'm not doing it."

"Answer the phone, will you?" the other ordered.

John sighed and flipped open the mobile. "It's from Lestrade. Someone's been murdered in Queen Mary's Gardens… severed carotid artery… apparently this is the third death like this in the past three weeks…"

"Tell him we'll be there in fifteen minutes."

"You could ask me if I have plans, Sherlock," John said, though he was already typing out the reply.

"You don't have any. You haven't worked up the nerve to ask out Aliyah, so you're free." Sherlock swung his coat over his shoulders and walked down the stairs.

"It's still polite to ask!" John yelled, following him to the front door.

"What's the point of asking, I already know the answer. We're going out Mrs. Hudson," he called over his shoulder.

"Don't get into any trouble, boys," came the answer from a kindly older woman.

The two men left the building, one tall with dark, curly hair, the other shorter with a sandy head. Sherlock flagged down a cab, and they got in.

"Queen Mary's Gardens," Sherlock told him, leaning back in his seat and staring out the window.

John, however, was not letting go of his earlier argument. "You've got to learn how to be polite, Sherlock! Even if you know the answer, you've got to ask."

"That would be a waste of my time and energy. Now shut up, I'm trying to go to my Mind Palace."

John dropped it, knowing that the insufferable detective wouldn't budge, especially when he was traveling to his "Mind Palace," the place he stored all of the details he deemed important. He resigned himself to spending the trip in silence.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was treading through the palace, looking for the two previous murders. Ah, here it is. He'd caught a few glances at John's paper over the past two weeks. Murder one was Wednesday, October second. The only thing said about the victim was that she was nineteen years old. He carefully filed that away, turning his mind to the second murder. This one he had slightly more information on. Six days later, on Tuesday, another victim had been found. This one had been twenty-two, found in the bed of an abandoned truck. No more information was given. The police didn't have much information to give to the press. Took them long enough to ask for his help.

The cab stopped. "Highbury Fields," the driver announced. "That's £17.22."

Sherlock made no move to pay. John was not pleased. "I suppose you haven't got any money on you?"

"This one's on you."

John sighed in annoyance, handing the cabbie the money. "You owe me that money," he said reproachfully to Sherlock. "I'll remember that."

"You'll have forgotten by the time we get back," Sherlock stated calmly, getting out of the car.

"No, I'm going to remember this," John argued, also exiting. "And you will pay me back, with interest~" He broke off. "We're in the right place," he said, staring at the scene before them.

Sherlock was already striding towards the crime scene. Donovan came out to greet him. "What are you doing here, freak?" she asked aggressively.

"Lestrade asked me for help on this one. And it's too bad Anderson's wife was home last night." Sherlock ducked under the tape and headed towards the mass of blood, John following behind him.

Female. Young, approximately 28. Fair complexion from lack of sun, mark on inside of wrist from keyboard, quite heavy - desk job. Sherlock knelt next to her, inspecting the wound on her neck. Small, neat - a sharp knife. The width is equal to a standard pocket knife, but obviously much sharper than normal. Non-serrated blade. Sherlock cast his eyes down her body, noting the amount of blood. Smaller cuts along the arms and legs. Small protrusion from front pocket from folded paper - He pulled on his gloves and pulled it out.

Sports can be dangerous. -S

"What have you got?" Lestrade asked, striding up behind Sherlock.

"28 years old, worked a desk job, probably a secretary. She was killed by an overly sharpened pocket knife, but was tortured before that. There was also a note in her front pocket." Sherlock handed the paper to Lestrade. "Unmarried, but one daughter."

"Sports can be dangerous. S," Lestrade read. "Any ideas on what this means?"

Sherlock straightened up. "What did the other notes say?"

Lestrade didn't bother asking how he knew there were other notes. "'Public transportation is hazardous to your health' and 'No seatbelts are risky,' both signed 'S'."

"A serial killer."

Lestrade groaned. "You have a habit of finding these crazies."

"I'll examine the other bodies."

"I'll drive you there."

Lestrade, Sherlock, and John walked to one of the police cars.

"You're quiet, John. You've slept and eaten, so exhaustion is not an excuse. It's not the death, you've seen it before. You're still mad at me for earlier."

"Maybe I am, Sherlock!" John burst out angrily. "I can't believe you'd just disregard me like that!"

"I'm not disregarding you. You had nothing going on, so you were free to come."

"But even when I'm not free, you still somehow manage to ruin things for me! Just wait, someday you'll be doing something with someone, and then I'll mess it up for you, let you know how it feels."

"I haven't got time to 'do something with someone'."

**A/N: I promise promise promise that I will finish this story if it kills me! I will! Please believe me... **

**Me gusta Sherlock, so I'm making this new story. My character isn't in yet, but rest assured it will happen in the next chapter!**

**Please let me know how you feel about this! Like it, love it, don't like it, loathe it from the very core of your being, write it down there in the little review box! They make me feel all warm and snuggly and write-y inside.**


	2. Chapter 2

Tap tap tap. A woman, probably about thirty-five, knocked on the dark green door. "Coming," came a muffled voice from inside. The woman stepped back and waited, absently counting the seconds until the door was opened by an older woman. 76 years old, 1.57 metres, the younger woman noted.

"Mrs. Hudson?" the one outside asked.

"That's me. Are you the one who was asking about the flat I have?"

"Yes."

"Please, come inside." Mrs. Hudson stepped aside and gestured her inside. "What's your name, young man?"

"Morgan Garner."

"Would you like to see the apartment?"

Morgan nodded, following Mrs. Hudson up a flight of stairs, past a closed door, and up more stairs to the second floor. "What is it you do, Morgan?" Mrs. Hudson asked as they climbed.

"I'm a math professor," Morgan answered shortly, but not unkindly.

"Smart boy, then. Here we are, then." They stopped in front of another closed door. "The one on the left is John's bedroom, and this one is yours. I hope you don't mind how small it is."

"I require only 3.52 square metres of living space, not including kitchen and bathroom. This will be beyond adequate."

Mrs. Hudson decided not to answer that statement, too used to the Sherlock's equally odd ones. She opened the door and ushered Morgan into the narrow room.

16 by 3 by 2.5 metres total. No furniture. One oven, one fridge, one counter, one sink. She peered into the bathroom. One toilet, one shower, one mirror, one sink. She ran a finger underneath the water. 21 degrees celsius.

"I'll rent it," she announced.

Mrs. Hudson was amazed as she silently handed her the keys. Normally, when people saw the shape of the flat, all interest dropped. But here was this odd young man willing to rent it. "When are your things arriving?" she asked.

"In six seconds."

Now Mrs. Hudson decided to question that, but she was cut off from a knock downstairs. "Please excuse me," she said, hurrying downstairs.

"It's my things," Morgan called after her, following her down the stairs.

Indeed it was. "Delivery for a Ms. Morgan Garner," the delivery boy said.

1.77 metres, but would be 1.85 if he stood up straight. "Thank you," she told him, taking the boxes. He waited for a few moments for her to tip him, but when no money was brought forth, he turned away resignedly, mentally cursing the ungratefully people who couldn't part with a few notes.

Mrs. Hudson, meanwhile, was re-evaluating Morgan. Ms. Morgan Garner? Her black hair, cropped close to her head, was certainly a man's cut, but some girls these days were doing that. Her arms and legs were thin and bony, and the loose t-shirt and shorts she wore hid her figure. My god, she is a woman! Mrs. Hudson thought, embarrassed.

"I'll put these upstairs, if that's alright with you," Morgan was saying. "Oh, and here's the down payment." She produced a check from her pocket, handing it to the mortified Mrs. Hudson before turning to go upstairs.

"Do you need any help?" Mrs. Hudson called after her, trying to make up for her mistake.

"No, I'm fine. It's only 4.53 kilograms," Morgan called back to her, easily navigating the steps.

She crested the second flight of stairs soon after, bringing the boxes in through the still open door, which she pushed shut with her foot once she passed it. The boxes were set on the ground and opened, revealing their contents.

Box number one contained a roll-up mattress, two blankets, and a pillow. Morgan pulled these out and made her bed neatly in the corner across from the door. Underneath these items was a plastic bag containing a laptop and charger cord. She placed the computer on the bed and plugged it into the socket placed conveniently nearby.

The second box had two plastic plates, two cups, two bowls, and three each of spoons, knives, and forks, along with several pairs of chopsticks. She pulled all of these out and brought them to the counter, balancing them precariously on top of each other. Underneath these was a rice cooker, which she also placed on the counter, and a stack of clothes. The clothes she put in several piles by the bed, grouped first by type, then by colour. Her house complete, she closed the boxes and turned them upside down, allowing them to serve as tables in case she needed them.

Downstairs, the door opened and closed again. Two sets of feet ascended the staircase. They must be the renters of the bedroom next to her and the flat downstairs, given the lack of knocking and the familiar call of "Hello Mrs. Hudson," one of them had put forth.

Morgan considered her options. Introduce herself now or wait until they noticed she was there. Her answer was found, however, not by her own pondering, but by a voice from downstairs.

"I know you're up there. Come down," the man called.

She heard a reproachful "Sherlock," come from the other man, who she guessed was John of the bedroom next to hers. Shrugging at the way the decision had been taking away from her, she stepped lightly down the stairs and into the men's flat.

1.83 metres. 35 years old. Naturally curly hair. Eyes flicking up and down, no particular resting place, but an analytical air. Thinks I'm male. She looked at the other, who was bustling around the kitchen, making tea. 1.69 metres. Age 38. Limping. But the limping tempo is off. Fake? No, there's faltering. A psychological limp, then? Possibly, meaning he recently returned from war. There was 0.3 metres between them before he left, closer than is usual for two men.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was also observing the stranger. Terrible posture, very light skin, lack of muscle tone, skinny - doesn't get outside or exercise much. Short ragged nails from biting, cheap clothes - stressed about income. No wedding ring - unmarried. No cologne or attempts at grooming - not looking for a partner. Eyes are going over John and me, inspecting us. Pulse slightly elevated when examining me - possibly gay.

The two people finished their observations at nearly the same time. "Invite her in, Sherlock!" the one who was obviously John called. Morgan entered the flat, perching on the edge of the couch next to Sherlock. John came out of the kitchen carrying three cups of tea. "Do you want any sugar or cream?" he asked, just like a good host should.

"No."

Sherlock added this monosyllabic response to his deductions, adding to his theory of spoiled child.

"What's your name?" John prodded, trying to get Morgan to open up about herself.

"Morgan Garner."

"John, I have every right to deduce him, if he's not going to give us any information," Sherlock told John to forestall protests on his part. "You don't get outside or exercise much, giving you the terrible posture and physique you currently have. Your cheap clothes and nails suggest you are worried about money. You are single and shy, given the lack of wedding ring and cologne. When you were examining us, your pulse was slightly elevated, particularly while looking at me, suggesting you are gay. Conclusion: Your parents provided for you until recently, when you came out of the metaphorical closet about your sexuality." He sat back smugly, not doubting his accuracy.

Morgan remained impassive. "Incorrect. My turn. John has a psychologically-induced limp," she nodded to John, who had frozen with his tea cup halfway to his mouth. "He was in war, but didn't actually get injured like that. You, Sherlock, always inspect the people you meet. You two also stood much closer together than is expected for males, only 0.3 metres apart. Analysis: You are a detective, while John is your boyfriend returned from the military." Morgan took a sip of tea.

John burst out laughing, making both Sherlock and Morgan look at him strangely. "You - guys - both - messed up!" he choked out between chuckles.

"I was wrong?" Morgan asked, black eyes widening in surprise.

"Yes. You were close on some parts. I am indeed a detective. However, I am the consulting detective, the only one in existence. John did return from the military. However, we are not gay and are certainly not a couple. Just close… acquaintances."

John scoffed at his word choice. "Sherlock doesn't believe in friends," he put in, rolling his eyes.

"They are rather unnecessary," Morgan said.

"So what did I supposedly get wrong?" Sherlock asked, annoyed by the fact that he had made a mistake.

"You were correct in assuming I don't get exercise or go outside often, along with the fact that I'm single and not looking to change that fact. However, I am not gay, my parents did not recently cut me off, and I am not male."

Sherlock, like Mrs. Hudson had previously, re-evaluated, fitting her appearance in with her gender. "Interesting. You do go to" lengths to hide your identity."

Morgan shrugged noncommittally.

Sherlock's phone buzzed. For once, he actually answered it. "It's Hooper. She says that all the bodies are ready to be examined."

"I should be going," Morgan said, standing to leave.

"Sorry about his bluntness," John apologized. "He doesn't get that most people get freaked out by gruesomely killed corpses."

"It's not that. I've got to go to work." Morgan left up the stairs.

"She's… odd," John commented.

"No, she's semi-observant."

**A/N: Ta-da! New chapter! And new character! I didn't want to make her a female Sherlock, but have some similar qualities instead. Did I succeed? Please say so in a review if it's not too much trouble!**


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock and John arrived at the morgue at eight PM on the dot. Despite the late hour, Molly greeted Sherlock with her usual hopeful smile. "The bodies are over here Sherlock," she said, leading the two men to the three stiff females lying on their backs. Sherlock bent over the first body as Molly kept talking. The dead woman had fair skin and wavy black hair that was once pinned back neatly, but had escaped the confinement in death. "Her name was Elizabeth Walters, age twenty-two. She was on her way to a college party. Lestrade talked to the people hosting the party. Apparently she was a bit of a loner, always studying-"

"Shut up." Molly fell silent, watching Sherlock's examinations with wide eyes. He studied her face, arms, the wound on her neck, the little box containing the possessions found on her. "I assume the police have traced this number already?" he asked, holding up a pink piece of paper with a phone number and name on it.

"Yes, they have," Molly answered eagerly, happy to be of some help to the consulting detective she so admired. "It's the number of a woman named Lola Wood. Apparently they met over a dating site."

"Lesbian, then. She had a pet rabbit and was vegetarian, which is probably irrelevant. Left-handed and writes a lot. She works as a secretary while getting her degree in mathematics from University of London." Sherlock finished his description and turned back to Molly, who was as astounded as ever, despite the many times she had seen Sherlock in action.

"That's amazing!" she said, staring at him with wide eyes.

"It's simple. Any idiot could figure that out," Sherlock said coldly. Molly's face fell, making her look rather like a puppy that was just scolded. "Moving onto more important matters-"

John interrupted him. "Just explain how you know and get on with it, Sherlock. We all know that you love being asked to explain."

Sherlock shot him a withering look. "I am not an attention-seeking child," he said coolly. "But if you insist…" Despite his statements to the contrary, he did enjoy explaining how he deduced things and why everyone else was so stupid because they couldn't see them as well. "Fur on the pant legs, too short for a dog or a cat, but reaches too far up for a rodent. The pin on her shirt saying "Meat is Murder!" is a rather obvious indicator of vegetarianism. Callus on the middle finger of her left hand from gripping a pencil too tightly while writing. Faint marks on the inside of her wrists from working at a computer all day. Her phone charm is from the math department from the University of London. Now, as I was going to ask before, when was she found?"

Molly shook herself from her amazement at his deducing abilities. "They found her at…" She flipped through the papers on her clipboard, pausing at the one with details about Elizabeth. "12:16 PM in the bed of a pickup truck on October eighth. The owner of the vehicle was interrogated, but he had no connection to her at all and they had to let him go. All the evidence says that she died at least 15 hours earlier."

"The truck owner didn't do it. No, this is a serial killer, one that chooses their victim very precisely. They would have a connection to Miss Walters here."

Sherlock strode over to the next victim, trailed by an attentive Molly and a reluctant John. John's reluctance was not unfounded, for this woman had been left in the same clothes she had died in. More specifically, a red and gold bikini top and matching shorts that shouldn't even have qualified as clothing. Her wavy light brown hair was in an intricate pattern of braids, and her brown eyes stared glassily at the ceiling.

"She went by Lucy, but we don't know her real name," Molly started before Sherlock could ask, feeling rather proud at her need-predicting. "She was nineteen, living alone in an apartment with a couple of cats. She worked as a," Molly paused, blushing. "A stripper," she whispered the word like it was a terrible swear word. "At Veni, Vidi, Veni."

"I came, I saw, I came," muttered Sherlock absently, unabashedly examining the half-clothed dead woman while both John and Molly turned varying shades of pink. "She was very into her dancing, but she would sometimes play the guitar for the other dancers when she got tired. Her cats are not declawed or friendly. She left her clothes somewhere else, or else she was so high she didn't care about her clothes."

John shifted uncomfortably, still trying to keep his eyes away from the inappropriately dressed dead woman lying right in front of him. "Just tell us how you know," he sighed.

"Simple. Her muscles are quite toned from the time she spent practicing. Calluses on her finger tips from playing the guitar. And only a real idiot could miss the cat scratches on her legs. And what woman would walk outside in the equivalent of underwear? She may have forgotten her clothes, but the marks on the inside of her elbow indicate drug usage, which could cause her to forget about her dress. And stop forgetting to say when and where she died, Molly!" Sherlock finished sharply.

Molly gasped and fumbled through her papers. "Um… October second at 12:54 in the morning on a bus… The police found her almost immediately after she died the same way as the others. The bus driver said he didn't see who did it, just that he turned around at the end of the line and saw her lying in a pool of blood, after which he called the police."

"What's the driver's alibi?"

"He's in a wheelchair, so he couldn't have gotten to the back of the bus where she was killed and back without stopping, and he made it back to the station on time."

"He was too obvious anyway," Sherlock said. He made his way to the final body, the one they had discovered that morning. "Any information on her that was not given by me?" he asked.

"Her name was Emma Ward. You were right about everything. Her daughter's in shock, but is being taken care of by a close family friend. She was a computer programmer, and her boss said that she seemed completely normal."

Sherlock didn't examine Emma's body again, as he had already acquired enough information from it earlier that morning. "Come on John, we're leaving," he said, turning sharply with a whirl of his coat, John next to him.

"Bye, Sherlock!" Molly called after them, turning away sadly.

"We need to talk to Elizabeth's teachers, Lucy's employer, and Emma's daughter." The two men stopped at the curb, Sherlock reaching up a hand to flag down a cab as John gaped at him.

"You are not speaking to that woman's daughter!" John said forcefully. "The poor girl doesn't need to deal with you after all of this!"

"This is an investigation, John. Emotions are irrelevant to the case." A yellow vehicle stopped for them. Sherlock slid in first, followed closely by John.

"See, that right there is exactly why you can't go see her! You don't understand emotions, and that's why people find you so infuriating!"

"People dislike me because they feel threatened by my vastly superior intellect," Sherlock corrected.

"Well that's part of it, but not all of it-" John explained, but was interrupted..

"Either you fella's tell me where we're going or get outta my cab!" the cabbie said angrily.

"221 Baker Street," John said. The cabbie started driving, muttering something about quarreling couples. "Just drive!" John said vehemently, annoyed beyond reason that this was the second time that day that mistake had been made and that Sherlock was being, well, Sherlock.

Fifteen highly uncomfortable minutes later, during which John had crossed his arms and glared at Sherlock rather like an angry child while Sherlock seemed completely unconcerned with his feelings, the taxi pulled up in front of their flat. Sherlock looked to John expectantly.

"What am I, a bloody bank?" burst out John as Sherlocks intentions became clear. He pulled out the money and handed it to the driver before getting out of the car and slamming the door behind him. Sherlock came out more calmly, swinging his long legs carefully out the door and studying John as he thumped angrily upstairs. Perhaps he had pushed John just a little bit too far this time.

Sherlock filed that thought away for future consideration as he went up the stairs and into the flat. John wasn't there. He was probably venting in his bedroom. He'd come round eventually.

**CGKrows: It irks me that so many Sherlock stories have him be completely wrong and the OC be completely right, so I had both of them wrong. Glad you like it, and thank you for the review! ^_^**


	4. Chapter 4

Morgan left the university late, at three in the morning. She guessed that nobody would care when she got back, so she wasn't in any particular rush to get back. Somehow, walking the streets of London at night didn't scare her. Perhaps it was her male appearance that made her unafraid to walk alone. Even she didn't know.

104,938 steps later, she arrived at 221 Baker Street. She eased open the door and padded silently up the dark stairs.

"Morgan."

Sherlock's voice from inside his flat startled her, and she tripped on the last stair, catching herself before she hit the ground. She opened the door and stepped inside, blinking quickly as her eyes adjusted to the sudden light. When the black spots faded from her vision, she took in the flat. Two chairs, one couch. Eight lamps, 120 watts. A ton of crap everywhere. Her roaming eyes caught sight of Sherlock, who was regarding her with curiosity in his eyes.

"Tell me what you see," he said quietly.

"What I see?" she asked, not understanding the question.

"How do you see all of this?" he gestured to the room around him. "Explain."

Morgan sat down next to him on the couch and drew her knees up to her chest, looking around the room. "Two chairs and one couch. Eight lamps, each with a 120 watt light bulb in it. Three photographs of scenery. 73 of those leaf patterns on the wall," she gestured to the wallpaper. Approximately 917 books around the room." She turned to look at Sherlock. "Why?"

"Numbers. You have an unusual obsession with numbers." Sherlock regarded her over his steepled fingers.

"I'm a math teacher," Morgan shrugged.

"Why did you sneak in so late? Your clothes and hair are perfect, so you weren't with a lover. Perfect coordination, besides that trip on the stairs, so you weren't drinking. So what were you doing?"

"I was at work," Morgan said stiffly, unaccustomed to someone prying into her private life with such abandon.

"A math teacher at work until three in the morning? Don't lie to me, Morgan," Sherlock said disgustedly. "I thought you were smarter than that."

"And I thought that you were smart enough to tell when someone is actually lying to you," Morgan said coolly, though her temper was rising.

"What were you really doing, Morgan?"

"I. Was. At. Work," Morgan said, not quite so calmly as before. Her black eyes were glaring at Sherlock angrily.

"Liar!" the shout startled both of them, as they were suddenly aware of how loud it sounded against the silence of the sleeping house.

Sleeping no longer, as John came down the stairs, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. "Sherlock, what's going on, is someone-" he broke off when he saw that the only two people in the room were Sherlock and Morgan. He took in Morgan's deathly expression and Sherlock's furious glare, wondering what was going on. "I thought-" he started. "It sounded like… nevermind, I'm going back to bed." He went back upstairs, wisely leaving Morgan and Sherlock to whatever argument they were having.

"I think I'll be going upstairs too," Morgan said stiffly, standing and moving away from Sherlock. "Good night, Sherlock." She turned pointedly away from him and made her way to her apartment, Sherlock watching her retreating back.

The conversation had distracted him from the case, and he knew that he would get nothing done tonight. Why had he even called her in? Oh yes, a change in perspective, and bouncing ideas off of her. That went well.

Morgan sat on her bed, leaning against the wall. She'd only known Sherlock for eleven hours and seventeen minutes, but he was already grating against her nerves like a rusty piece of metal.

She opened her laptop, typing in the ridiculously long password, and stared aimlessly at the screen. She should really grade her student's assignments, and she had class tomorrow morning. Resigned to the hours of grading ahead of her, she pulled up Abbot, Nicholas' essay and began to grade it. The assignment was the first one of every class she taught. Describe your view of numbers and how they pertain to everyday life.

Morgan read the essay with increasing boredom. And therefore, numbers are very important in balancing a checkbook. Could a person keep track of their money without numbers? No! That is why numbers are so important in everyday life. Dull.

Barrett, Isabelle: I view numbers as measuring tools. Metres, kilograms, degrees - all of these units are useless without numbers to give them meaning! Numbers allow you to find the exact quantity… Not interested.

On and on the essays went, until the light from outside began to illuminate Morgan's face in something other than the glow from her laptop.


	5. Chapter 5

"We're going out," Sherlock announced, coming out of his room where he had been waiting for John to come downstairs for dinner.

John didn't look up from the tea he was brewing. "No, we're not."

Sherlock was unfazed. "We have to go talk to Elizabeth Walter's professors."

"I'm not going," insisted John, now cracking an egg into a frying pan, all the while avoiding the various beakers of liquids around the stove.

"You're still angry with me about last night," Sherlock said.

"Yes, I am. And that means you're going all by yourself. Do you hear me? Alone. On your own. Solo."

"There's no need to show of your rather limited vocabulary," Sherlock commented.

John scowled and threw the empty egg shell at his roommate's head. "Go away!"

Despite having easily ducked the flying shell, Sherlock decided that a night hadn't given John enough time to get over last night. He left the flat alone, called a taxi, got inside by himself, and entered his Mind Palace without the usual chatter of John next to him.

He was having difficulty navigating his palace. He ran a finger over his lower lip as he wandered through it, somehow always coming to the same room. John Watson. This lack of control irked him, and, honestly, made him nervous. His Mind Palace was a place where he was in complete control, a place where he could find anything. It actually came as a relief when the cab stopped in front of the University of London and he had to come back to the real world.

The real world ceased being pleasant, however, when he realized that John was not there to pay for the cab fare. The cabbie glared at him as he patted his pockets futilely. Fortunately, he spotted a familiar figure walking along the sidewalk.

"Morgan!" he called out the window.

She paused and retraced her steps. "What do you want, Sherlock?" she asked coldly, obviously also not over last night. What was it with people?

"I seem to have forgotten my money back at the flat and-"

"You want me to pay for your fare. Be warned, I charge a 1% interest rate for every hour you take to pay me back."

"Do you do that for everyone?"

"No. You're special." She handed the driver the money. Sherlock got out of the car. "What are you doing here?" she asked as she continued her walk, Sherlock's long strides easily keeping pace with her slouching shuffle.

"Investigating."

"That was descriptive."

They continued walking, Sherlock acutely aware of the cold silence between them. He was not normally aware of such things, but the frozen rays that seemed to be shooting off of Morgan were hard to miss. They entered the campus, surrounded by college students doing typical adolescent stuff. A group of music students sat playing flutes and violins. A couple of exchange students stood together, speaking in rapid French. A muscular man with a blonde hanging onto his arm was entertaining a crowd of glassy-eyed followers.

"Where are you going?" she asked finally as they were walking up the bleach-white steps of an equally blinding white building.

"I'm looking for the advisor of Elizabeth Walters." Sherlock looked behind them down the stairs to see Morgan frozen, one foot comically hanging in midair. "You were her advisor," Sherlock deduced smoothly from her obvious shock at the name.

Morgan shook her head slightly and continued up the stairs. "I'm not talking about someone who was murdered in the open."

"You're worried that it will look suspicious."

The two rounded the corner and entered through the glass door of the building. "It would look like I'm a suspect. I don't need that."

Sherlock watched as she poked the up button on the elevator. "Of course. Your newly hired status makes your position as professor rather questionable." The elevator dinged as the spotless metal doors opened. The pair entered, and Morgan poked at the button labelled two. "In the time it takes us to get up to the second floor in the elevator, we could have taken the stairs and gotten there early."

"That would have expended ten calories. This uses two. It's more efficient, energy-wise."

Sherlock studied the back of Morgan's head as she got out of the elevator and shuffled down the hall. She glanced back at him. "You coming?"

He caught up to her as she was turning the key in the lock of an office. She pushed open the door, recoiling slightly at the cheery voice that greeted her. "Morgan!" The speaker was a tan woman about the same age as Morgan, with round blue eyes and messy, light brown hair. Her features, matching skirt and shirt, and short height made her look like an overgrown schoolgirl.

"Brooke. I didn't think you'd be here so late."

"You know me! Always like to be on top of things!" The untidy stacks of papers all around her desk suggested otherwise. "Who's this?" she asked, turning to Sherlock with an expression of innocent curiosity.

"This is my neighbour, Sherlock Holmes."

Brooke grabbed Sherlock's hand and shook it enthusiastically. He noted her strong and confident grip that matched her outgoing manner. "Such a pleasure to meet one of Morgan's friends!"

"I don't have friends," Sherlock and Morgan said together.

Brooke laughed. "Well, sounds like you guys are just two peas in a pod!" A high-pitched beeping emanated from her watch. "Good lord, I've got to run. Morgan, we've got to go out for drinks sometime! Toodles!" She bustled away.

Morgan sank into the chair behind the other desk, pinching the bridge of her nose. Her desk was much neater than Brooke's. A stack of student's essays sat on the corner, two pieces of mail on the other. "She… how can she be so…" She struggled for the word. "Social," she finally decided on.

"People with low intelligence tend to be like that." Sherlock watched as she grabbed the mail and slit it open.

"Bill," she commented on the first, putting the paper into her the pocket of her pants. Her lip curled in distaste as she read the second letter. She left her desk after grabbing a sheet of paper from an inside drawer and shoved the paper into the trash can. Sherlock surreptitiously retrieved it. "Are you coming with me to my class?" she asked.

"I need to interview you. I assume there will be time in class where they work independently."

"Yes. But do not comment on my teaching, the course material, or how I treat the students." Sherlock followed Morgan down the hall, left, and down another one to a metal door labelled "Lecture Room Four." Morgan pushed the door open and entered, Sherlock trailing her silently. While she went up to the front of the class, he skulked in the back, watching her students.


	6. Chapter 6

28 students. 19 male, nine female. Twelve empty seats, two absences.

Morgan watched the chattering students, standing behind the podium at the front of the room. Slowly, the students quieted as prickling on the backs of their necks alerted them to her penetrating gaze. When not a whisper was heard, she began class.

"After reading your essays, I have come certain conclusions. Would Mr. Abbot please raise his hand?" A young man in the back of the classroom dressed in basketball shorts and a jersey raised his hand lazily into the air. He had an air of arrogance around him, as though he was used to being admired by everyone.

"That's me. My father was in school with you, by the way. You must remember him. Tom Abbot. Yeah, he's in real tight with the actors he's worked with. Daniel Radcliffe, Matt Smith, Benedict Cumberbatch…"

Morgan remembered his father. 1.72 metres. Currently forty. Always in with the popular people. Was particularly accomplished at "accidently" tripping her.

"Stop bragging," she said sharply, silencing Abbot. "No one in this room cares about what your father has been doing. Although I wasn't initially going to say this, I have learned from your essay that you are obsessed with money and you got Miss Howe to write parts of your essay. Incidentally, you are receiving zero marks for that."

Abbot sat back in his chair, looking astonished at being called out for something. Howe, a girl with thick glasses and remarkably clear skin, blushed and looked down at her hands.

"What my original point was is that none of you gave me a satisfactory essay. Your minds are confined by the little streets and pathways of your thought processes." Morgan went up to the board and grabbed a piece of chalk. "Someone tell me what you wrote about numbers."

No hands were raised.

"All right then. Wiliams." Williams, a man with fair skin and nervous brown eyes, jumped when she called his name. "What did you write about in your essay?"

"I said that numbers help you make money, like in a casino," he answered nervously.

Morgan wrote "Make money" in messy handwriting. "Owen," she called out. This time it was a tall girl with braids who looked nervous.

"Numbers let you keep track of money."

Morgan wrote this on the board as well. "Adams."

A muscular boy in jeans answered simply, "Measuring stuff."

She wrote this on the board. "This is what your ideas are worth," she said, drawing a large X over the short list. "They're dull and mundane. You have to think. Don't just repeat things you heard in middle school math." She paced in front of the class. All eyes were glued on her. "Numbers are not just thing that you use when you're paying for someone or baking," she said scathingly. "They are used for so much more. For example, when listening to the number of syllables per second, you can often determine when a person is lying. Or analyzing their heart rate can tell you what they're feeling."

A young man in the second row raised a hand. Morgan nodded to him, stopping her pacing. "Professor Garner, can you use numbers to find a murderer?"

Morgan studied him, interested by his question. 1.67 metres. 24 years old. American, southern. His tan skin suggested that he had recently moved to London from somewhere with more sun. Intelligent hazel eyes framed by wire-rimmed glasses watched her with interest.

"Yes, you can use numbers to find a serial killer. Look class, someone is actually thinking in this room! So, Mr…"

"Davis."

"So, Davis, how do you think you can catch a murderer using numbers?" Morgan waited for him to answer.

Davis looked uncomfortable with the entire class watching him. "You could… look at what time they were killed?" he suggested. "Or how far apart the murders were?"

Morgan smiled for the first time that class. The expression quickly disappeared, however, as she addressed the rest of the class. "Davis here has excellent ideas. Looking at what time they were killed can tell you something about the murderer. Was it during school hours? Either they don't attend school, or they cut class. That narrows it down. And the location. How far were they from the nearest underground station? Maybe the killer escaped there. How far apart are multiple murders? Maybe they're connected. Now, I want you all to split into groups of seven and discuss some actual ideas on what to do with numbers!"

The class broke up and conversations began to buzz. Morgan went to the back of the classroom to where Sherlock was watching. "You are a very forceful teacher."

"Thank you. Now didn't you have some questions for me?"

Sherlock nodded. "Elizabeth Walters. Describe her."

"Walters was an exchange student of mine in Tokyo. She was exceptionally bright. When she heard that I was moving back to London, she immediately asked me to be her advisor."

"What was she like?"

"She always sat in the front left desk. She had an A-, 90%, in the class. As I said, very smart."

"You consider 90% very smart?" Sherlock scoffed.

"The average grade in my class is 73%."

The bell rang just then. The students began to pack up their things hurriedly. "Sit down!" Morgan called over the chaos. They sat. "Your homework is to come up with a list of creative number usage. Don't disappoint me. You are dismissed."

Morgan and Sherlock trailed the mass of students exiting the room. "We're going to Veni, Vidi, Veni," Sherlock said, going down the stairs.

"We?" Morgan stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at Sherlock.

"Yes, we. You have no other engagements, so come."

"What is Veni,i Vidi, Veni?"

Four students coming up the stairs whispered to each other and burst out into laughter. "You're misquoting Caesar!" one of them said. "You sound like a pervert!"

Morgan watched them walk down the hall, still laughing heartily. "Why am I going?" she asked suspiciously.

"We need to interview a murder victim's employer. John's mad at me and my skull stays at home. You listen to me as I talk."

Morgan considered him, then glanced down at the stairs. "You owe me 34 steps worth of energy," she said, walking down them. "Along with the money I payed for the cab. And interest."

When they got down to the sidewalk, Sherlock brought up a hand to wave down a cab, but Morgan tugged at his sleeve. "We're walking," she said.

"What happened to the whole ten versus two calories?"

"Saving money beats saving energy. Now walk."


	7. Chapter 7

Sherlock's incredibly accurate internal map of London led them through progressively shady areas. He noticed each person walking past them more keenly than usual, as even Sherlock Holmes had some base instinct of danger. He glanced over at Morgan, shuffling beside him with an impassive expression on her face. Interesting. Most women would be nervous in such an area, constantly turning to locate every sound.

Morgan, despite her neutral appearance, was calculating the best escape routes should something happen. 33 feet behind is an ally. 43 feet ahead a church. Ten minutes and thirty-three seconds since we've been somewhere halfway decent.

A particularly seedy looking man walked past, with a shiny, bald head and shifty grey eyes. He watched them out of the corner of his eyes. Sherlock saw his eyes flick to the wallet in Morgan's pocket, and drew Morgan slightly away from the potential pickpocket. She shook him off, but at his meaningful glance to the man, nodded in understanding.

They stopped in front of the questionable establishment. A brightly coloured sign announced the name - "Veni, Vidi, Veni." Sherlock entered without hesitation, Morgan following him closely.

The interior was dark and gloomy. Drunken laughter came from the left, the beginnings of an argument from the right. The cigarette smoke was so strong you could taste it. Honestly, Sherlock didn't mind the second-hand smoke, even enjoyed it somewhat, but a slight cough from Morgan told him that she didn't appreciate it. A miasma of liquor and cheap perfume hung about the place.

Lights in the back of the room suddenly flared on. Sherlock made his way towards them, Morgan keeping close. Seductive music came from large speakers set on either side of a stage. The crowd yelled in anticipation. Two rows of dancers came out. Girls dressed in outfits similar to Lucy's began their synchronized dance. Cheers came from the audience.

A tap on Sherlock's shoulder made him look down. Morgan gestured for him to lean over. "You brought me to a strip club?" she hissed.

"It's for the investigation," he answered quietly.

"What investigation is this? The one where you find out what happens when you invade a gay strip club with your neighbour?"

"Gay?"

"All the dancers are women. 99% of the patrons are women. You are the only man. Any idiot would realize that."

Sherlock nearly answered to the idiot comment, but realized that it was something he often said himself. Instead, he explained the investigation. "I need the manager."

Morgan cast her dark eyes around the room until they settled on a woman with short brown hair framing her wide face leaning against a wall, watching the dancers with something less than the erotic pleasure most others in the rom were feeling. Sherlock followed her gaze and nodded, heading over towards her.

"We need to ask you some questions," he said briskly as they stopped in front of her.

She looked him up and down. "You're in the wrong place, buddy," she said thickly. "The girls ain't interested."

"Are you the operator of this establishment?"

"Yeah, I'm the boss. Name's Louise, Lou to my friends." She scrutinized Sherlock's face. "Whatsa boy like you doing here?"

"Do you remember a woman who went by the name of Lucy?" Sherlock asked, sidestepping the question.

"What's it to ya?"

"I need answers."

"Twenty-five pounds and I'll answer ya."

Morgan stuck a hand out from behind Sherlock, the notes clutched in her hand. "That's going on your bill," she hissed at Sherlock.

"What was Lucy like?" Sherlock asked.

"A damn good dancer. She could play the guitar, too. The way them Mexicans do. You with the police or somethin'?" she eyed them suspiciously.

"What did you know of Lucy's personal life?" Sherlock pressed, again avoiding her question.

Louise shrugged. "I don't ask, she don't tell me. It's simple. As long as she comes on time and keeps 'em happy, I don't care." Louise narrowed her eyes as she remembered something. "She was into something, though. Some drug dealings. Don't ask me what, I dunno. But some boys came in after closing a couple weeks ago lookin' for her. Mean-looking fellows."

"That's all I need." The two left the bar. Sherlock was deep in thought as they made their way through the dark streets. Morgan shuffled behind him, glancing over her shoulder as she heard ominous noises coming from the shadows. She may be comfortable going from the University to Mrs. Hudson's, but this place sent cold shivers up her spine.

Sherlock contemplated the information. Drugs would seem to be a good reason, but Elizabeth wasn't connected. The only similarity they have so far is their gender and sexual orientation. Soft muttering came from behind him and he glanced at Morgan, leaving his thoughts long enough to catch a bit of what she was saying. "83, 89, 97, 101, 103, 107, 109, 113…" Prime numbers. A stress-reducing mechanism.

Morgan stumbled slightly, and Sherlock looked at her again, this time taking in the dark circles under her eyes that had evidently been hidden under concealer until now. It was nearing midnight, and others needed sleep. By the time they had finally made it out of that neighbourhood, Morgan looked like the walking dead. She looked even more exhausted when they got back to 221 Baker Street.

Sherlock fully expected her to make her way upstairs to her bedroom, but instead she walked through his open door and flopped onto the couch face down. The clock on the mantel chimed midnight.

"What are you doing?" asked Sherlock. Morgan didn't move. She had fallen asleep on his couch. He poked her. No response. "Morgan," he said, shaking her. Nothing. An ordinary person would have left her sleeping there, given her obvious exhaustion. But not Sherlock. This his personal couch in his flat, and she was not allowed to sleep there.

Sherlock threw his coat off him and went to the sink, where he planned to try the tried and true method of throwing ice-water on a person to cause them to awake. But after discovering that the ice-trays were empty, he turned back to her, only to discover that she had grabbed his coat and was using it as a blanket.

His thinking space was being invaded. That spot underneath the yellow smiley face was his personal thinking spot, the best portal to his Mind Palace.

He strode over to her, lifted her head, flumped down, and dropped her head unceremoniously onto his lap. The impact of skull to his bony legs should have woken up anybody, but Morgan was still asleep. In fact, she snuggled more into his coat-blanket, causing a slight crinkling sound to emanate from a pocket. The letter. All thoughts of waking Morgan up cast aside for the moment, he carefully pulled out the paper and unfolded it. He cast an eye over the handwriting before actually reading the words. It was loopy and graceful, the perfect girl's font.

Hi sweetie! I know it's only been a few days since you left, but I sent this little "hello" to you by express to let you know how things are doing with you gone! Sakutarou and I are doing wonderfully! He's such a good man, I don't know why you don't like him! Speaking of men, have you got yourself a boyfriend yet? Time is ticking, Morgan! It's about time you settled down, started a family, stopped that ridiculous job as a professor! That's no life for a woman! I want some grandchildren, young lady! After all, the best thing that came out of my marriage to your father was you! You should come back to Japan and visit soon! Lots of Love! Mommy

Sherlock folded up the letter and pushed it back into the pocket. No wonder Morgan had such a sour expression when reading this letter. Her relationship with this overbearing woman was obviously less than loving.

Casting all thoughts out of his mind save those pertaining to the case, Sherlock pressed his fingertips together and began to think over the murders. He really needed to speak to Ward's daughter, but John would surely be even more angry with him if he traumatized the child even more. But the man wouldn't do anything he asked, as he was still mad with him. Emotions. What a nuisance.

Morgan shifted slightly in her sleep, drawing Sherlock's mind to a possible solution. One in which neither he nor John would be required to speak to the child.

**James Birdsong:**** Thank you! I hope you like the seventh one as well!**

**TaylorRiley17:****Thanks! I'm glad you enjoy my OC! And, yes, I am a mathematical person, but not nearly so much as Morgan.**


	8. Chapter 8

Morgan woke up at exactly six. After years of grueling schedules, she had trained her body to only require six hours of rest per forty-eight hour period. Her sleeping pattern was so ingrained that she would fall asleep at midnight the second day no matter where she was. That would explain the thigh bone jabbing into the back of her head.

She opened her eyes to see a pair of green eyes peering at her. "How long have you been staring at me?" she asked calmly.

Sherlock didn't move. He didn't even blink. His mind was obviously far away.

Morgan decided not to bring him back to the present. She carefully disengaged herself from her position laying across his lap, deciding not to question the position at the moment, wondered at the coat she had been using as a blanket, and ascended the eighteen stairs to her flat. The most pressing matter on her mind was to acquire food. Immediately after awakening was one of the only times she required food. Again, years of study and work had shaped her body schedule into something almost inhuman.

Her simple meal consisted of stir-fried lotus root and carrots and a glass of milk. The food took a mere fifteen minutes to prepare, and even less time to eat.

The time was upon her to grade.

She had instructed her students to turn in their work online, as it was easier for her to keep track of. The lists of "creative" number usage were a quick assignment, but so often yielded disappointing results to the student's grades.

As she was opening the laptop to commence the day's grading, Sherlock came into the room, dressed to leave. "Busy? We need to be somewhere," he said, not waiting for an answer to his question.

"Yes."

"Then hurry up."

Morgan shook her head. "No. Yes was the answer to the question of whether or not I am busy. I have things to do."

Sherlock used a persuasive tactic that worked so well on his flatmate. "I need to talk to a victim's daughter. If you don't go, I'll be the one talking to her…"

Morgan wasn't moved. The papers needed to be graded before anything else. And tonight she had a staff meeting… She entered the ten digit password to the computer, expecting Sherlock to leave. To her surprise, he sat next to her and looked at the screen.

"What could you possibly be doing that's so interesting?" Sherlock mumbled. Morgan ignored him and logged into the school's website, again with a ten-digit password, her fingers typing so fast that she assumed Sherlock would be unable to remember the keystrokes. Bad assumption. "Do you always enter your passwords when people are watching you?"

"Most people don't have a short-term memory beyond seven slots. They won't remember the combination, even if they tried." She opened a student's assignment.

"Grading? You'd rather be grading than questioning people in a homicide case?"

"It has to be done." The next fifty-two minutes were spent with Morgan staring at the screen, steadfastly ignoring the consulting detective making comments about everything from the students' ideas to the number of times she bit a fingernail.

When the final grade, an F, had been put in, Sherlock snapped the computer shut and pulled Morgan up. "Now we're going."

"Where?" Morgan asked resignedly as she was dragged down thirty-six steps and out the door.

"I already told you."

Morgan frowned, vaguely recalling Sherlock saying something about a daughter. What had he said? A victim? She stopped trying to recall what he'd said when his deep voice calling her name brought her back to reality. A cab had stopped in front of her, Sherlock already inside. She ducked inside and sat with her arms wrapped around her legs. The taxi set off at once, the driver making a few comments on the stupidity of people doing drugs.

"Where are we going?" Morgan asked again.

"We are going to question the daughter of Emma Ward, the most recent woman murdered," Sherlock explained. "You would have known if you'd listened to me in the first place."

"Why am I here?"

"John says I'm not good with people. If I questioned the girl alone, he would be more annoyed with me, but he won't come. So you're talking to her."

Morgan stared at him. "Do I look like a person who should be talking to a motherless child?"

"Your ability and inclination is irrelevant to the point."

Morgan sighed and looked out the window, watching the buildings flash by. Sometimes the genius could be an idiot. She would have expected the man who made his living reading people to figure out that she wasn't good socializing.

After ten minutes and seven seconds, the cab stopped in front of a five-story apartment building. For once, Sherlock paid the fare (reminding Morgan that she needed to collect his debt), and they entered the building. The lobby was chilly, almost as cold as the outside air. Morgan ignored the stares of the people relaxing in the old couches. She walked next to Sherlock, watching him deduce the entire life stories of the people around them.

The fifty-five seconds of ascension in the old elevator to the fifth floor were passed in silence. Only when the doors open with a soft ding did Morgan begin to question Sherlock again. "What am I supposed to ask the kid?"

"What her mother was like, when she went out, where she was during the day, who she associated with, friends, family, lovers. I'll ask questions if you're too stupid to think of any."

"No wonder John doesn't want you to talking to the girl."

Sherlock blinked. It was strange, really, how that comment felt. With John, he could usually pass it off as one of his many grumblings about him. But with Morgan, there was a tiny twinge of… guilt? He wasn't sure. But, onto more important things. He rapped three times on the door of apartment two.

"Who is it?" The voice belonged to a woman in her late twenties.

"Sherlock Holmes. We spoke on the phone."

The door swung open to reveal the speaker. 1.75 metres. Dark skin, probably of African descent. Eyes glancing around more often than usual. Nervous. "Had to check, you know. Can't be too careful, after what happened… what happened to Emma." Morgan's limited people skills at least told her not to criticize her method of verifying identity. "But please come in, have a seat. I'll get Charlie."

Morgan and Sherlock sat in the modest living area, Sherlock crossing one leg over the other, Morgan perching on the edge of the sofa with her hands folded underneath her chin. 2.99 by 3.65 by 2.64 metres. Few decorations. One door to a bathroom, one to a bedroom.

The woman who had let them in came back leading a girl, Charlie, by the hand. 1.49 metres. 12 years old. Blue eyes and pale skin, European. Eyes are red from crying.

"Charlie, this is Mr. Holmes and his friend. They're going to ask you some questions about Mum, okay?"

Charlie nodded, sitting down across from Sherlock and Morgan. She began to rock back and forth, eyes wide and staring at the two of them.

"Can you describe what your mom was like?" Morgan began the questioning with something simple.

Charlie nodded. "She was… she was really nice… she took care… of… of…" she burst out crying.

Morgan looked at Sherlock for help, but he was gazing impassively at the grief-stricken child. Charlie's caretaker shot Morgan an angry glance and hurried over to Charlie, hugging her and stroking her hair. "Shhh, shhh, Aimee's here," she said in a soothing voice. When Charlie had hiccuped herself into silence, save the occasional sniffle, Aimee led her back through the door to the bedroom, saying "You did a good job, Charlie. Now go play, okay?"

Aimee closed the door and rounded on Morgan. "How could you be so insensitive?! How would you feel if your mother had just died?" she scolded.

"Relieved," muttered Morgan.

Sherlock took charge. "Then you answer our questions. Did Emma have friends, family, a lover, perhaps, that she contacted regularly?"

Aimee cast a final look of disapproval at Morgan before answering the question. "She would go out with friends occasionally, but she spent a lot of time working. Her parents live in France, so she doesn't see them much. And you're speaking to her former partner. We split up a while ago, and she's been looking at online dating sites, under the pen name Lola Wood."

Sherlock turned to Morgan. "Elizabeth's orientation."

"Bisexual…?"

"We'll be going," he said, making towards the door.

"That's all you wanted to know?! There was no need to traumatize Charlie!" The door shut behind the two, muffling Aimee's voice.

"No more questions?" Morgan asked him. Sherlock didn't answer. He was again off somewhere far away in his head.


	9. Chapter 9

The meeting that night was excruciatingly boring. Dry, dusty old men made dry, dusty old speeches about why their department needed funding, how their students were doing, dull things like that. Morgan had recited the first 500,000 digits of pi, counted the number of times Professor Collins sniffed, and chewed her left pointer finger into a perfect arc by the time the meeting was finally over.

She returned to her office, intending to check for any mail she might have received. However, she was waylaid in the hall by a tall, curly-haired man. Sherlock.

"I'm setting a trap for the killer. They're going to kill Aimee next, and John and I will catch them."

"Why are you telling me this?" Morgan asked.

"You helped. You should know," Sherlock said simply.

"Thank you, Sherlock," she said, half smiling at him, surprised by his thoughtfulness. "I need to go to my office." She continued down the hallway, not noticing the slight frown on Sherlock's face as he watched her shuffling away. "Hello, Davis," she called to her favorite student.

"Hello, Professor Garner," he responded.

Morgan went into her office, noting that Brooke was absent. Good. She didn't want that annoying little voice in her ear.

A hand clamped over her mouth. Morgan struggled, inhaled, and felt the world begin to spin. Drugged. She thrashed, but her attempts to free herself became progressively weaker. Finally, she succumbed to darkness, and knew no more.

* * *

"John, I need to talk to you." The graveness of Sherlock's deep voice convinced John to listen to him.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Morgan is the serial killer."

John was shocked. "How do you know?" he stammered.

"I told her about how I knew who the next victim was, and the trap we were laying. I was positive that person would die last night. They are still alive. Therefore, Morgan is the killer."

"What about the notes?" John asked, remembering the cryptic messages and initial 'S.'

"A decoy. The police spent most of their time focusing on the messages, which were nothing more than a distraction. Don't doubt me, John."

**A/N: Sorry for the short chapter, but it's important, so...**


	10. Chapter 10

**Warning: Violence, blood**

When Morgan woke up, she was lying on the cement. Her limbs felt as though they were paralyzed, and, indeed, she was unable to move. Then it hit her. She didn't know what time it was. Never in her life had she ever not known the time of day to the second. It was a terrifying feeling. Her breathing began to quicken. Don't panic, she told herself. Think. 2, 3, 5, 7, 11… By the time she had reached 113, her breathing had slowed and her mind cleared somewhat, though her limbs still felt as heavy as lead.

Where was she? She heard the hissing of pipes. The air was unmoving and heavy. The cold cement floor was uneven. A basement room, perhaps? Footsteps came towards her.

"Garner." That voice. It was Davis.

Morgan forced her eyelids up and saw the faint outline of Davis standing above her. She tried to speak, but the best noise she could make was a slight moan.

"Yes, me. I'm the one who killed those filthy queers." He spat out the last word as though it was sour in his mouth. "And now…" A glint of silver in his hand. Morgan tensed, seeing the knife. "I'm going to kill you."

The blade sliced at her leg. Clearly the deranged man was going to torture her first. Morgan gritted her teeth, trying not to scream.

* * *

Sherlock and John piled into the cab. "Lestrade will meet us there," Sherlock told John.

"There?"

"The University."

* * *

Blood was running down Morgan's calves. The next slices came at her thighs.

Morgan screamed.

* * *

"She's not here," Lestrade said.

Sherlock pushed past him into Morgan's office. His sensitive nose picked out a sickly sweet scent.

"Someone was drugged."

* * *

Davis ripped off Morgan's shirt with his free hand, continuing the gashes up her body.

Morgan saw his eyes glittering in fanatical rage.

The pain was unbearable.

* * *

"This way!" called Sherlock as he followed the chemical's smell.

John and the police followed behind him.

* * *

Morgan's throat was raw from screaming.

But the pain didn't stop.

* * *

Sherlock heard the cries of a woman coming behind the basement door before him.

* * *

Morgan's entire body was covered in blood.

Darkness was creeping into the corners of her vision.

This is the end.

* * *

Sherlock burst into the room, surprising the two people inside.

"Freeze!" Lestrade pointed his gun at the man crouching over the unconscious woman. John flicked the lights on, revealing Davis and… Morgan.

Davis made a mad dash at Lestrade, his knife raised high. He was dead before he had taken three steps.

The reverberations from the gunshot had barely ceased before Sherlock was at Morgan's side. Her face was pale from blood loss. The pool of blood around her was still widening.

Sherlock had been wrong. Morgan wasn't the killer.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: Last chapter! I hope the ending wasn't too bad... I'm working on a new Sherlock story, by the way, which should be starting to go up soon. Enjoy :)**

Morgan had returned to her flat after a week at the hospital. Her skin was now criss-crossed with faint white lines, although they hardly showed against her pale skin.

John had visited her several times as she was recovering, talking to her, trying to put her at ease. But the usual disinterest she had shown in other humans had multiplied exponentially. Sherlock had refused to come, saying he had experiments to catch up on. John had let him off the hook for the most part, merely inviting him along each time he went for his visit.

The first night Morgan spent back home, John had gone to spend the night at Sarah's due to Sherlock's unending insults. Sherlock was playing the violin, an endless river of music flowing from the instrument.

* * *

_"I'm going to kill you."_

_The blade sliced beneath her skin, tearing the blood vessels open. Warm blood flowed down her body._

_The pain lasted an eternity._

_"I want to die!"_

Morgan woke up at 2:40, sweating and panting, with the intuitive feeling that she was not alone in the room. She sat up and pushed herself into the corner, clutching her blanket, sleep blurring her logical skills.

"It was a dream." Sherlock's deep voice was close to her. "Davis is dead."

Intellectually, Morgan knew this. Of course it was just a dream, a memory made worse by her subconscious. But still she shook in the corner, like a child afraid of the monsters in the dark.

The mattress sunk as Sherlock sat on it. Morgan strained her eyes to see him in the dark room. By the light from downstairs, she could see his faint profile as he regarded her panicked state. "I'm not good at comforting people, so don't expect me to make you feel better." He slowly put a hand on her shoulder. "John says this is something that makes people feel better."

Morgan was acutely aware of the feeling of his hand through her t-shirt. It was so much better than having metal cutting into her. She leaned into Sherlock, not noticing the way his muscles tensed when she did so. Two hours and forty minutes of sleep and an adrenaline rush were not helpful for thinking processes. The point was this person next to her was safe.

* * *

Sherlock was having a mental conference with himself about Morgan. She was disagreeable, and by common definition she was not aesthetically pleasing. But over the past week there had been nothing to do, and his thoughts had turned increasingly towards her and the various thoughts and feelings he had to repress while around her. How did he feel about her?

* * *

Sherlock's heart rate was 114 beats per minute, yet it still came as a surprise to Morgan when he pressed his lips to hers. She didn't move as he placed slow, gentle kisses against her mouth. He placed his hand lightly on the side of her neck. After a few moments, he pulled away.

"Interesting," he commented. "Unresponsive, yet your heart rate was elevated at a consistent level with sexual attraction."

Morgan's mind was also whirring through the possibilities of this experience. The sudden intimate gesture had fully opened her mind to the possibility of romantic feelings for Sherlock. Yes, it did feel nice to be close to him. It was true that his intellectual abilities were alluring. And her heart rate did increase to 117 beats per minute. Analysis: She was physically and intellectually attracted to Sherlock Holmes.

"Out of ten, my level of interest in you is 8.08. Is that satisfactory for a possible romantic partner?"

"It is enough to test the success of a relationship between the two of us. It's an experiment of sorts."

* * *

Eight years, eleven months, and five days later, the data from the experiment was collected.

Morgan was in a dress (for the first and only time in her life). Sherlock was in a suit. John smiled at the ceremony he had been responsible for planning.

"We are gathered here in the sight of God and these witnesses to unite Morgan and Sherlock in holy matrimony."

Sherlock looked from the minister to John. "John, you really aren't observant. Why on earth did you give us a Christian ceremony? Like God exists." Upon hearing that statement, the minister crossed himself and left the altar.

John scowled at Sherlock. "I didn't bloody know you were going to offend the minister!"

Morgan interrupted before the argument could erupt. "John, you do it then."

John looked flustered. "Well, I don't really know how…" He stood next to the couple. "Um… Sherlock, do you take Morgan to be your lawfully wedded life, through sickness and darkness, and…"

"Just ask us if we do," Morgan whispered to him.

"Sherlock, do you love Morgan?"

"Define love."

"I give up." John threw up his hands in exasperation. "Just kiss the bride."

Sherlock's lips caressed Morgan's as he mouthed something.

"I do love you."


End file.
